Ive come down with a cold. Yesterday my suboxone took care of the symptoms,but this morning when I woke up it was a lot worse.
I went downstairs to have breakfast and felt like fucking ending it right there. I wish I had the balls to have just run into my kitchen, pull out a steak knife, cut off my testicles and then sever my femoral arterie, and lay down on my back and watch the world slowly slip away. Ideally, an ambulance would come and attempt to rescue me. They'd shoot me up with morphine, but then there attempts at containing the blood loss would fail. And I'd die high.
I'm taking a biology class, and I have no idea why. Oh wait, yes I do. It's because if I take biology, my feeble mind thinks that then I will be able to take chemistry, and of course after one introductory course to chemistry, I will be able to synthesize methamphetamine, cocaine, and heroin in my bedroom. Who the fuck am I kidding.
So I got to class late, because my throat fucking hurt, and I couldn't get off my ass this morning. I had ten dollars in my pocket that was change from some money my mom gave me. I thought about using it to buy a bag a heroin and shoot the soar throat out of me, but I feared that one bag would not be enough, and my conscience was starting to weigh down on me, so I gave the money back to my mom. Am I proud of myself? I don't give a fuck.
After making some pretentious point about how science and art is heavily inter-connected, I left my school, and rode the train back into Brooklyn. I was surrounded by hideous fucking people. I mean, Jesus Christ they we're nasty, some real lord of the rings type trolls riding with me. And there was this Arab guy that got in around carrol street. He was young, dressed nicely, and had a laptop computer. I knew it was wrong but I was hoping that I was about to find myself in the center of an al Qaeda terrorism attack. I imagined the young man looking over at me, a fierce determination in his eyes, and then hed stand up screaming "ALLAH Ah'k bar!" (don't really know how to spell that properly). He'd rip off his shirt to reveal a homemade bomb strapped to his chest. I would have just enough time to think "god, I really don't want to die, it all makes so much sense!" and then the entire car would detonate, crushing my body against steel and bone.
So I got home alive, and I went upstairs into my room. I kept thinking about how I really just wanted to leave, just like how my friend did. But unlike him, I wouldn't leave some corny ass note with some ambiguous, possibly suicidal connotation. No, mine would just say this:
I have to leave New York, because this environment is not working for me.
I've never wanted to be sober, I've just done it for other people.
I don't intend on going on some mission of self destruction, I just got to get out of this fucking machine.
I went downstairs to have breakfast and felt like fucking ending it right there. I wish I had the balls to have just run into my kitchen, pull out a steak knife, cut off my testicles and then sever my femoral arterie, and lay down on my back and watch the world slowly slip away. Ideally, an ambulance would come and attempt to rescue me. They'd shoot me up with morphine, but then there attempts at containing the blood loss would fail. And I'd die high.
I'm taking a biology class, and I have no idea why. Oh wait, yes I do. It's because if I take biology, my feeble mind thinks that then I will be able to take chemistry, and of course after one introductory course to chemistry, I will be able to synthesize methamphetamine, cocaine, and heroin in my bedroom. Who the fuck am I kidding.
So I got to class late, because my throat fucking hurt, and I couldn't get off my ass this morning. I had ten dollars in my pocket that was change from some money my mom gave me. I thought about using it to buy a bag a heroin and shoot the soar throat out of me, but I feared that one bag would not be enough, and my conscience was starting to weigh down on me, so I gave the money back to my mom. Am I proud of myself? I don't give a fuck.
After making some pretentious point about how science and art is heavily inter-connected, I left my school, and rode the train back into Brooklyn. I was surrounded by hideous fucking people. I mean, Jesus Christ they we're nasty, some real lord of the rings type trolls riding with me. And there was this Arab guy that got in around carrol street. He was young, dressed nicely, and had a laptop computer. I knew it was wrong but I was hoping that I was about to find myself in the center of an al Qaeda terrorism attack. I imagined the young man looking over at me, a fierce determination in his eyes, and then hed stand up screaming "ALLAH Ah'k bar!" (don't really know how to spell that properly). He'd rip off his shirt to reveal a homemade bomb strapped to his chest. I would have just enough time to think "god, I really don't want to die, it all makes so much sense!" and then the entire car would detonate, crushing my body against steel and bone.
So I got home alive, and I went upstairs into my room. I kept thinking about how I really just wanted to leave, just like how my friend did. But unlike him, I wouldn't leave some corny ass note with some ambiguous, possibly suicidal connotation. No, mine would just say this:
I have to leave New York, because this environment is not working for me.
I've never wanted to be sober, I've just done it for other people.
I don't intend on going on some mission of self destruction, I just got to get out of this fucking machine.
